I find myself missing autumn. Autumn is the season of melancholy, the season of cinnamon and cardamom, of hot tea and wool cardigans; autumn is the only time when you are allowed to stop, be ugly, and wither.

There was a homeless man living under the bridge next to my apartment. I went out this morning and found he was gone, leaving pieces of his home on the autumn ground. He slept on foam, owns four blue glasses of different shades.

All that happens in our lives also happens within us, and all that fades in our lives also fades within. If we pay a little attention, we will notice that these losses have ripped some hints from our hearts. I never know his name, but he is gone today.

I’ve nearly wasted an entire day scrolling through social media, napping, snacking, and painting my nails. Yesterday was almost the same, and the day before that too. 

I am scared, that I am in this body. I was born with it and will die with it. It will get ill, and it bleeds every month. It is not very good at digesting so I get bloated every time I eat.

I am not put together, I am all over the place. A part of me in the small town where I was born; 

a part of me in London; 

a part in my mother's arms; 

a part on a train that never reaches home; 

a part of me wants to run forward; a part of me keeps looking back; 

a part of me wants to put myself together; 

a part of me wants to scatter all over the ground, like the chocolate milk spilled by a child on the subway exit, dripping down the sticky staircases. People walk by, avoiding it. It's not unusual, every day, someone spills something there.

My body hangs on the backseat of an uber like a muddy jacket on a rusty chair. A sticky feeling lingering on my tongue-I feel like the river that buries Ophelia, I feel like Ophelia, just without the flowers and art and poetry. 

I think I just need a good meal, with lots of vegetables that are easy to digest, so my stomach doesn’t get bloated. A hot shower, maybe, as a substitute for my mother’s hug.